Un Détenu de Grande Fortune
by PhantomInspector
Summary: AU. A retelling of Jean Valjean's life as Charles Dickens might have portrayed it. MIGHT being the operative word. Yes, it has finally been done: Hugo's characters meet Dickens' plot in a Les Miz parody of Great Expectations.
1. Prologue

Another one of those stories that's been bouncing around in my head for a while. And yes, there are more where this came from. Whether that's a good or bad thing, you have to decide. Anyway, this is just the prologue, and it took me a while to write, so don't be too surprised if I take a long time updating. Of course, this chapter also happens to be very long, seeing as how I wanted to fit this whole scenario into one prologue. So the chapters themselves might end up being shorter. Okay, that's enough talk. Read and enjoy.

Disclaimer: I do not own Les Miserables or Great Expectations, they belong to Hugo and Dickens (even if they are not copyrighted).

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The trees creaked and groaned in the wind. They waved their black, naked limbs recklessly, threatening to double over and crash upon any creature that was unfortunate enough to find themselves in one of their shadows. Blowing on my chilled hands, I tried not to think of the unnerving motions of the monstrous plants while looking at the gray, weather-worn tombstones that stood before me. As usual, I read the inscriptions aloud.

"Mme. Jean Valjean, also known as Jeanne. Beloved wife and mother. M. Jean Valjean. Dearest husband and father."

The second tombstone did not mention that the deceased man had been a pruner, and had broken his skull and neck in a fall while tending to an unruly tree. Neither did the first say that the woman had died while giving birth to her only son. Tombstones usually did not say such things.

I was fulfilling the duty of delivering freshly-picked flowers from a nearby meadow, carefully placing them on the grave of the mother I had never met. I had decided some time before that my father would not appreciate the flowers, since he had seen so many in his lifetime and was probably sick of them.

The wind had grown so cold and unbearable that I finally resigned to kneeling beside my mother, hoping that making myself smaller would help me to keep a bit warmer. My outer most garment was nothing more than a sorry excuse for a coat. I did not blame my sister Jeanne for this, or Henri, for our family had always struggled with money matters, and it was all we could do to survive one day at a time. Besides, a good deal of what had once been mine had now been bequeathed to my little nieces and nephews, all seven of them. I especially felt sorry for the girls, who often were forced to go about in trousers and shirts that were a size or two too large. They were particularly dismayed when they glimpsed at other girls from slightly better-off families who wore simple but decent dresses. It was hard for all of them, though, since old clothes wore through more quickly than new ones, and there was very little opportunity for Henri to afford new clothing for his children or brother-in-law.

It was, to say the least, a bleak situation, and one I was eager to escape from as often as possible. That was why I maintained this little ritual of bringing flowers to the churchyard and paying respect to my unfortunate progenitors. There was no real emotion attached to these visits. My father had died when I was still quite young. I could remember him a bit, but the faint images I had stored in my memory evoked no sentiment. It was better that way, I suppose. It was easier for me. I liked to pretend that even though they were dead and buried, they could still hear the living who passed by their resting places. I spoke to them as other people might speak to a pet, allowing my thoughts, fears, dreams, and concerns to flow without worrying about what the listeners thought. On most visits, though, I preferred the comfort of silence.

On this day, however, the sharp whistle of a late autumn wind, the rustling of dried leaves, and the groaning of aging, craggy arbors robbed the occasion of its usual serene quietude. There was something strangely foreboding in the air, and it made me more uneasy than normal when I visited churchyard. I was no more thrilled about death than the next sane fellow, but I had hardened myself a bit to the idea. Considering our situation, death was not too far away. Both home and the graves bore a similar gloom that savors of mortality. What I felt now was much more than that. It was like a warning, a feeling of immediate peril. It made no sense, but every instinct began to cry within me, "Get away from here! Fly now, while there's still time!" I told these thoughts to hush up, convincing them and myself altogether that it was merely paranoia.

The impulse did not leave me, so I allowed myself to believe that my visit had been long enough, and it was now time to go home. I picked myself up off the ground and turned to leave, when I was suddenly pounced upon by what I initially thought to be a ghoul or goblin. I cried out in fright, only to have a hand firmly clap over my mouth.

"Keep still, you little devil," snarled the creature, her voice like an old hag's and her face partly hidden behind a black mane, "or I'll cut your throat."

"No, please, no!" I pleaded, halting my terrified cry and attempting to not seem as frightened as I so painfully felt. It was, needless to say, difficult. I felt only slightly easier when she pulled her hand away and instead placed both of them on my shoulders. She shook me roughly.

"Tell me your name. Quick!"

"J-Jean," I stammered. "Jean Valjean."

I momentarily hoped that I could escape the savage woman's grasp, but I had underestimated her power. She held my shoulders with the strength of a tiger. "Tell me where you live," she ordered.

"Th-there," I gasped, for she now gripped my collar fiercely, and I was having a bit trouble breathing. I pointed over the small stone wall that encircled the cemetery, and past the fields that stretched toward the distant woods. A humble dirt road ran between two fields and cut through the woods. This same road led to the heart of Faverolles, and two miles beyond that was my home.

I was taken unawares by the woman's quick, seemingly premeditated movements, and before my mind could fully comprehend what was happening to me, she had brought me to the ground, onto my stomach, roughly tore off my coat, and kept what felt like one knee firmly planted on my lower back. "Remember, one false move . . ."

I did not risk it. I tasted my own fear, its flavor overwhelming my mind and robbing me of any capacity for strategy. I could think of no way to escape, therefore leaving myself to merely listen and observe the hag that trapped me like a naïve baby rabbit. I could hear her searching my coat, then feel her rough, bony hands rummaging through my trouser pockets. She even began to move up toward my shirt; she must have thought better about it, though, and halted the action.

She seized my collar again and twisted me around, bringing me into an awkward sitting position. She kept herself above my eye level and leered viciously into my face. Her cracked lips were pulled back so as to reveal a set of large, yellow teeth that seemed capable of chomping off my head in one bite. I was nearly prepared to believe that was what she intended to do as her large jaws opened, but instead they took a bite out of an apple that I had picked and put into my pocket as a small snack. She seemed to enjoy ingesting my apple before my eyes. I was both repulsed and fascinated by the way the juices dribbled down her mud-encrusted chin, as if they had a special ingredient for abluting the filth on her face. Her skin still seemed relatively dark under this layer, but the difference was hard to miss at such a close proximity. She was halfway through the fruit when she spoke once more. Little bits of juice and food spewed out of her mouth as she spoke."Now, where's your mother?"

I jerked my head to the left, trying to indicate that she was resting behind me. "Over there."

The woman had misinterpreted my gesture and began to walk toward my left and away. It was only then that I noticed the shackles and chains fettering her ankles. "No, ma'am," I called, "over _there_." This time I pointed to the tombstone. "'Also Jeanne.' That's my mother."

"Ah," replied the woman in a hoarse voice. "And is that your father along with your mother?"

"Yes, ma'am, him too."

The woman took a few steps toward the graves and me, her gaze fixed upon the headstones, then looked at me once more and gripped my collar. "So who do you live with? In case I might need you again if I decide to let you live, which I haven't made up my mind about yet."

I swallowed the growing lump of anxiety and fear in my throat, knowing the possible repercussions of giving such information to not only a stranger, but a dangerous one in chains who had already threatened me twice. That last comment might have counted as a third one, but I was not quite sure. I decided that I had no real choice but to cooperate. "With my sister, ma'am. Mme. Henri Leblanc. Wife of Henri Leblanc, the blacksmith."

The woman drew her dark brows into a pensive scowl. "Blacksmith, you say?" She allowed her tongue to run over her dry bottom lip as her eyes drifted away from my face. Her mind was thinking as quickly and clearly as possible, I could tell. There was no missing that spark of cunning mixed with desperation flickering in her otherwise unreadable eyes. She snapped her glance at me once more, then pushed me backward until I could feel my lower back pressing into a headstone. Although I could not move further away, she continued to push me back, so that I was awkwardly bent backward over the gravestone and struggling not to feel nauseated.

"Now, listen carefully. Do you know what a file is?"

"Yes."

"Do you know what vittles is?"

"Yes, food."

"Then you bring me a file and vittles here, at dawn tomorrow, or I'll have your heart and liver torn out."

Queasiness and dizziness together made me thoroughly uncomfortable, and although I could understand her well enough, I meekly asked, "If you would not mind, ma'am, perhaps you could keep me upright so that I may not be sick, and then I may be able to attend more."

Despite the deepened scowl, she acceded to the request and brought me upward again. The loss of blood in the head made me faint for a moment, but the sensation passed and I focused on my molester more than ever. Being certain of every order she gave was what would determine whether or not she would spare my life.

"Now," she continued, her voice growing more angry and animalistic by the second, "you get me the things I asked you for, and do not tell another soul of your having ever seen someone like me, or else your heart and liver will be ripped out. And roasted. And ate! There's young wench hidden here with me, and you can trust me when I say that in comparison with her, _I'm_ an _angel_! She has mastered the black arts, and can place any sort of hex upon you as she pleases, from bleeding boils to slimy toads leaping out of your mouth! But that is only for play. When she's finished with all that nonsense, she'll use her tiger-like claws to rip open your chest and belly and eat your innards with delight! A boy may hide in his bed, but that young witch can find him anywhere, then softly slip into his room and tear him _open_! Say, 'Heaven strike me dead if I don't!'"

I felt no desire to argue. Shaking terribly, I echoed while gazing upward, "Heaven strike me dead if I don't!"

Only now did the savage fire that possessed this devilish creature die down, and with it the ferocity of her grasp. She only relinquished her hold with a rough shove, ordering me to get on home. No one had to tell me twice. Throwing her a frightened, "Thank you!" and "Goodnight!", I rushed home.

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Jeanne was far from pleased at my having slipped out without telling her where I was going. I explained that I had only been to the churchyard. "Churchyard, indeed!" she cried exasperatedly. "You would have been at the churchyard long ago _and_ stayed there if it hadn't been for me! It's bad enough I have seven mouths to feed, plus a husband; the last thing I need is another child who is more concerned with play and not the least concerned about chores. After your supper I want you to clear the table and wash the dishes. I don't have enough plates to feed everyone at once."

She had reminded me of this several times, but I did not argue. There was no point in fussing about such things when nothing could be done to change them. I submissively sat myself down besides Henri and we both began to consume our small supper. As we ate, I detected the sound of a cannon firing in the distance. I looked at Henri. "What was that firing, Henri? A cannon?"

"Yes, apparently there's a convict off."

"What do you mean?"

"Escaped, boy!" snapped Jeanne in frustration. "Escaped!"

"A convict escaped last night, and they fired a warning of him," explained Henri quietly. "This must be a second one."

My curiosity was aroused. I kept picturing the shackles on the wild woman's ankles, and the request for a file. "Where does the firing come from?"

Jeanne beat Henri to the answer. "Lord bless me, Jean, from the hulks, of course!"

"Oh, I see," I answered uneasily. I was unsure of asking the following question, but I was left so ill at ease by not asking that it had to come out. "So . . . what are hulks?"

My sister gave another exasperated cry. "Lord, answer the boy one question, and he'll ask you a dozen more! Hulks are prison ships. They sometimes come up the river, just beyond the meadows, when criminals have escaped and the Law has to go searching for them."

My thoughts were still with my newest acquaintance. "I cannot help but wonder . . . what kind of people are put into prison ships . . . and _why_ they're put in them?"

Jeanne felt no motherly urge to shelter my callow mind; she gave it to me point-blank. "People are put into prison ships because they murder, rob, forge, and do all sorts of bad things. And do you know how they start?"

I dumbly shook my head.

"By asking _too many questions_. Now hurry up and finish your supper."

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It was well into the night before I was able to retreat to the safety of my tiny cupboard of a room. I was exhausted from putting down each and every child of my sister's, and we were both thoroughly joyful at having gotten all our chores out of the way. It did not last long, for Jeanne took the time to remind me that there would be a whole slew of new chores tomorrow. I went to bed with lead in my feet.

Despite how fatigued I felt, I slept very little. The woman's warnings constantly returned to me, both when I laid awake and when I managed to sleep. When I woke up suddenly for the third time that night, I accepted the fact that I would not be able to go back to sleep. I sat up in bed and gazed out the window. It was nearly dawn. I wanted so badly to forget the promise I had made the day before, to believe that there was no way either the woman or her companion could find me, even when I had pointed out the general location of my abode.

Fear and panic suddenly flooded my thoughts and senses as I once more recalled her words: _A boy may hide in his bed, but that young witch can find him anywhere, then softly slip into his room and tear him open! _It was intolerable! But there was nothing left to do. Giving myself a few more minutes to think it over, I braced myself for the wretched task ahead of me, then slipped on my proper clothes and silently tip-toed out of the room.

The house was as quiet as death, which made me relieved for a moment. As I descended the stairs, however, I felt that each creak and grunt from the aging wood was amplified in this silence, and would surely wake up either my sister or her husband. Nothing happened. I snuck into the pantry undetected and selected a half-empty bottle of brandy and a loaf of pumpkin bread. Before laying my hands on the latter, I remembered that Jeanne had just baked it the other day, and it was possible that she would miss it very soon. But I had to give the woman something satisfying enough so as to make her feel more willing to sparing my life. As I picked up the pumpkin bread, my eyes met those of a dead rabbit hanging by its feet. I know I had only imagined it, but I was nearly certain that I had heard the dead rabbit squeak, "You're a thief, Jean!"

My next stop was in the smithy at the back of the house, where I selected one of Henri's iron files. He had a good number, and he could be forgetful at times, so the chances that he would miss one were far less likely. He was also innocent enough to believe that I would never steal anything from him.

I wouldn't have, either, if I hadn't felt that my life was on the line. I was desperate, after all.

The morning was even chillier than the previous afternoon; fortunately, there was just the lightest breath of a breeze, which I was thoroughly grateful for. I ran as quickly as I could, my heart pounding frantically and beads of cold sweat moistening my temples and back. My hands shook violently, even as I clenched them and held the wanted items under my coat and close to my chest. I spotted a few cattle in the fields, and as I ran past, I felt their gazes land on me. I almost thought I could hear them as I had heard the rabbit: "You're a thief, boy! They're going to send you to the hulks! Look at that! A boy with someone else's brandy! And someone else's file! And someone else's pumpkin bread! Somebody stop him!"

At one point I could not help but pause and stare at a steer that looked over at me. "Hello, young thief," he seemed to call.

Anxious and fearful, I shouted, "I couldn't help it!" and dashed off.

The sun was nearly over the horizon by the time I reached the cemetery. I wanted to find the female convict quickly (I was quite sure by now that she was one of the convicts who had escaped) and flee with my life. After stepping over the stone wall, my eyes caught sight of a figure sitting in a slump atop one of the tombstones. I immediately thought it was the woman I had met before, but as I drew closer, I realized that this could not be the same one. She was in fact a woman, but her hair was a good deal fairer, though caked with mud and debris. It also seemed thinner, and did not appear to be the wild mane I had observed on the first woman. _Perhaps it is the wench she spoke of_, I thought. A brief wave of terror passed through me, but I pushed it aside and decided that giving the items to the woman's friend was just as good as giving them to the convict herself. Having never addressed her before, I thought it better to approach her directly and tap on her shoulder. I did, and was quite surprised by what I saw.

The new woman, thoroughly startled by the contact, whirled around and stared at me wide-eyed. On her face was a long, white scar that started almost in the middle of her forehead and sliced over her left eye and across her cheekbone. The eye under the scar was squeezed shut.

However startled I might have been by her appearance, she seemed even more afraid in seeing me, and she quickly ran off while anxiously looking around, as if she expected some terrible thing to leap out at her at any moment. Confused by this, I decided to wander for a bit more to see if the woman I had met the previous day was determined to keep the appointment.

Sure enough, shortly after meeting the "other" woman, I saw the darker one again, this time standing behind a tree and rocky forward and back on her heels. Her fists were tightly clenched at her side. It was only in this stance that I saw how tall and gaunt she was. She looked like she hadn't eaten anything for months (excluding my apple from the previous afternoon, of course). Still fearful and uncertain, I waited several moments before I timidly called out, "M-ma'am?"

She turned sharply toward me, then was by my side in a blink and pulled me down to my knees. She mirrored the same movement. "Are you alone?"

"Yes?"

"You gave no one the word to follow you?"

"No."

This was enough. She grunted in approval and took the items that I pulled out and revealed to her. "What's in the bottle, boy?"

"Brandy."

I suddenly occurred to me that a woman, even in her state, might find such a drink distasteful, and I felt my face grow warm. I was more surprised than relieved, however, when I watched her down the bottle without a second thought. There was also a hint of wonder at the sight.

Then she took the pumpkin bread and eagerly wolfed it down. Etiquette was beyond any concern of hers. Feeling slightly awkward at watching another person eat, especially in such a savage way, I felt the urge to alleviate my discomfort by becoming a touch more civilized than usual. "I . . . I'm glad you're enjoying it."

"Hmm?"

"I said I'm glad you're enjoying it."

This statement seemed to catch the woman off guard. She took a moment to stop chewing in order to look at me in bewilderment. After a moment of having our eyes locked, she answered, "Thank you, dear, I do." Then she commenced with her meal.

I allowed another minute or two pass before speaking again. "Are you . . . going to leave some for her?"

"Her?" inquired the woman, her mouth still crammed with bread. "Who's her?"

"The wench that you spoke of."

A strange grin came over the woman's face, as if she were relishing a private joke. "Oh, _her_? Oh, no, she doesn't want any food."

I thought this comment strange, having not understood everything about the situation at the time. "She . . . she looked as if she did."

This made the woman stop suddenly. "_Looked_? When?"

"Just now."

She grabbed my collar in the same manner as yesterday. "Where?"

"Over there," I answered, pointing with my head to where I had seen her. The woman was back to her usual ungentle ways and roughly jerked me to my feet. "Did you notice anything about her?"

"She . . . she had a large scar on her face."

I thought I heard a small gasp. "Not . . . not across her eye!"

"Yes, the left one."

Her eyes narrowed and she pursed her thin lips tightly for second. She finally said, "Hand over that file, lad." I eagerly gave it up, and she sat on a nearby boulder and began to grind as the black chains. When I saw that her entire attention was now fixed upon this task, I saw my hope for escape. "Umm . . . pardon me, but if you no longer need me, we have guests coming for dinner tonight, and my sister will be up early. If she notices I'm gone . . ."

"Go, go," she answered absently. I was immediately swept away by relief, and with a lighter feeling in my heart for having finally been freed from this wretched business, I flew from the churchyard.

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I disliked company, especially when it consisted solely of adults. Not only was there no one close to my age to converse with, but the older persons that graced the dining table seemed to obtain a sadistic enjoyment out of looking down on me and criticizing me for not being grateful enough for what I have. Granted that what we had was extremely modest, I was still reminded that there were plenty of people in the world who had even less than me, such as wild savages and Gypsies who did not have the privilege of living in a "civilized" society.

Dinner conversation amongst my sister, brother-in-law, their friends and our neighbors mostly consisted of these critiques. "Why is it the young are never grateful for what their elders do for them?" asked a long-time school friend of Jeanne's.

"Naturally vicious!" threw in M. Picard, the local cobbler who lived near the heart of Faverolles. He was neither married nor had children of his own, which was awfully convenient for my sister; unmarried guests meant no extra mouths she would be obliged to feed. Looking back, I think I can see more clearly now why Jeanne and her friends fell into the habit of speaking so poorly about children at such gatherings.

Although the conversation left me in a silent funk that only permitted me to half-listen to what was being said while I slowly nibbled on my meal, I did not begin to feel significantly ill until Jeanne announced, "Now, everyone, tonight I have a special surprise for dessert. It is an untouched loaf of pumpkin bread."

While the rest of the company was quite thrilled by this news, I was praying that Heaven would strike me dead at that moment. My crime would be revealed. What then? I wondered if I should excuse myself from the table in that instant. It was terribly rude, but I could see no other route of escape unless I dashed out the front door without a word. Perhaps that option was more probable; after all, the adults might not have even noticed my absence until sometime later. I was, at the time, being ignored, and the plan to slip away unnoticed sounded very tempting. I waited, though, and watched apprehensively as Jeanne left her seat and slipped into the kitchen, and then into the pantry, to retrieve the dessert that would not be there.

It had probably been only a few seconds, yet it seemed such a long time to me. Far too long, surely, for her to be searching for that bread and convincing herself that it had not vanished. I surreptitiously scooted toward the edge of my seat, preparing to make a run for it. My pulse quickened, I was primed for the sprint. I waited, and finally, after a few minutes, Jeanne's head poked out from behind the kitchen door, confusion and concern written across her face.

I hastily turned away, hoping she had not noticed my seeing her, then quickly stood up and ran for the door. I managed to get it open, but neither of my feet stepped a foot outside with the intention that I had at that moment.

What stood in my way looked like a high ranking member of the municipal guard, or perhaps one of the wardens from the hulks. Either way, he wore a tall hat and a blue and white uniform. I jumped back in astonished fright. "Now, there, my boy!" boomed the tall, slightly husky man before me. "Where do you think you're going?" Then he looked up and acknowledged the company. "Please forgive me, good citizens, but I am here on business in the name of the King. I need the blacksmith."

"And what do you want with him, may I ask?" This was Jeanne, who returned to the scene in time to examine the guard with an inquiring, distrustful gaze.

The guard was all politeness, a touch too flattering and cocky for my taste. "Speaking for myself, Madame, it is for the honor and privilege of making his lovely wife's acquaintance. Speaking for the King, just a little job to be done."

The uniformed man turned to Henri again, and this time pulled out and revealed a pair of malformed handcuffs. "You see, monsieur, we've had an accident with these, and it is important that they be repaired immediately, as we are pursuing a pair of dangerous persons."

"Convicts, monsieur?" asked M. Picard.

"I'm afraid so," the guard answered, "and two, no less. None of you have seen either of them, have you?"

"Oh, Heaven preserve us, no!" cried Jeanne, quite certain that everyone would answer the same. I refrained from speaking at all, or drawing any attention towards myself. I was not certain what the law did to thirteen-year-old boys who assisted female convicts under threat, but I was fairly certain that the result would be dismal for all parties concerned. One can only imagine how thankful I was that the adults continued to ignore me at this point.

The handcuffs were soon mended, and our neighbors M. Picard and M. Jerome, also a good friend of Henri's, decided that it would be a capital idea to follow along with the guards to see exactly how circumstances would unfold. They were terribly curious, as Henri was (it was his eagerness that persuaded me to come along), and the lieutenant conceded to this request so long as none of us interfered with their duty, and that they were not held responsible for any harm that might befall us during this pursuit. Jeanne seemed to share the same attitude, for as we walked out into the chilly November air, she called out, "If that boy gets his head blown to pieces by a musket, don't look to _me_ to put it back together again!"

I pulled my thinning coat tightly around me, caught between wondering why on earth I was putting myself through this and hoping that the wind would by merciful. Henri shoved his large hands into his patched-up pockets, and we made the effort to stay close to one another so that neither of us would lose track of the regiment. At one point, when he saw me trembling, he placed a warm, comforting arm around my shoulders and remarked, "Don't worry, lad, I'll bet a franc that they'll catch these vagabonds in no time, and then you can warm yourself by the hearth."

I didn't have the heart to tell him that I was not really shaking from cold.

The overcast of the day had broken up a bit around the horizon, emitting a glow of red and orange that contrasted against the shadowed pastures of Brie. Whenever I cast my eyes toward this phenomenon, I was momentarily convinced that the edges of the world were on fire, that we were trapped in a ring of fire, with no chance of escape. Then I thought of the woman convict, and shifted my gaze toward the ground. "I hope we don't find them," I muttered at one point.

"What's that?" asked Henri, who had not quite heard what I said.

I gasped slightly at my slip and felt my cheeks begin to burn. "Nothing," I answered quickly while keeping my head low.

The terrain rose and dropped many times under the trudging of the regiment before there seemed any hope for an end of this pursuit. The signal came in the form of a frantic cry that sounded a mile or two ahead of us. "Help! Convicts escaping!"

The lieutenant ordered his men to hasten, and we followed in kind. The cries continued and gradually grew louder and clearer as we sprinted across the grassy slopes and vales. Finally, after surmounting another hill, the regiment, the men, and I beheld an extraordinary sight.

The hill we were standing on descended into an area of bare earth, which has been altered into a wide, shallow mire due to recent rainstorms. There were two women, both somewhere in their early thirties. One with fettered ankles, and both dressed in grey, faded, dirt-stained rags – their prison attire. The shackled woman was striving to flee while the other did everything she could to stymie her attempts. It was not until after we had spotted them that the second woman managed to bring the first to the ground, partly aided by the slippery texture of the mud underfoot. The guards quickly descended upon them and tore the pair apart.

I felt a hard lump in my throat. The unshackled creature was the convict I had fed. When the guards laid their hands on her and separated her from the other one, she growled, "Remember this: I caught her for you. She would've gotten away if it hadn't been for me. You'll do well to remember that."

The other woman, whom I recognized by the chilling scar on her face, looked up with a widened eye and stammered, "Sh-she . . . she tried to murder me!"

My acquaintance laughed harshly. "_Me_ try to murder _her_? That's a good one! I got away ahead of her. And I would've gotten clear, too! Then I discovered _she_ was here. You think I'd let her go free, just to make a fool of me again!"

Rage briefly overcame the darker woman as she lunged at her companion, and seemed capable of strangling the more fragile-looking wench had the guards not hauled her away. "Leave me alone!" cried the scarred one fearfully, and nearly retreated into the secure grasp of her captors.

Both prisoners were brought to the lieutenant, who had two pairs of irons ready for his prey. I was somewhat surprised by how quickly my acquaintance returned to a state of calm, as if the act of fury she had just performed had been just that: a performance for her audience, including the very woman she seemed ready to tear to bits.

However calm she seemed to appear, I grew anxious when we came into close proximity with one another, and even more so when her eyes locked with mine. I instantly informed her, with my eyes and head, that the lieutenant's being here and capturing her was no fault of mine. Her gaze was shortly after averted toward her jailer, therefore preventing me from reading her response and assuring myself that she understood me.

After both women were handcuffed, we followed the regiment on a long march toward the river. As we walked, I continuously sought out the dark-haired convict with my gaze, observing the way she behaved when in the hold of captivity. I was awed by the way she carried herself – tall, straight, chin leveled and eyes downward. There was a strange sort of dignity in her manner, and she seemed determined not to be wounded or angered by her capture and return to the hulks. It was a mix of pride and humility that I was certain I would never encounter again.

I had nearly forgotten about my own fears – Jeanne's response to the missing bread and brandy – until we arrived beside the river and the two runaways were forced into a waiting rowboat. My acquaintance went down first. She seemed ready to climb in when suddenly she stopped and looked up toward the lieutenant. "If I may be permitted to speak."

"Oh?" snapped the lieutenant after a sharp snort.

"I wish to alleviate any possible suspicion another might suffer due to my deeds."

Her captor sighed. "Go on, then."

She stood a little straighter and put her shoulders back. "I stole some food from the village blacksmith. Some bread and a bottle of brandy."

I turned to see Henri's jaw drop wide open. "Do you recall missing such items, monsieur?" questioned the lieutenant.

"Why, my wife did just as you came in!"

"Oh," said the convict, her voice just a bit softer and remorseful, "so you're the blacksmith. Well, monsieur, I'm sorry to say that I've eaten your bread."

"Oh, you're as welcome to it as ever it were mine!" cried Henri, his innocent concern shiny genuinely and splendidly in my eyes. "We don't know what you've done, but we certainly wouldn't have you starve to death for it. Wouldn't we, Jean?"

"All right, that's enough," announced the lieutenant gruffly. "Get in, you."

The convict boarded the boat without another word. As the boat departed, however, I saw her turn around furtively and look me straight in the eye. I couldn't discern what she was thinking, though I was fairly certain that I needed not to fear her for a while. Her gesture had been my assurance that she did not blame me for her capture. I was grateful, but still uneasy. I still believed myself somewhat in her debt, for I felt, in a way, that I had failed in protecting her from the law.

_It does not matter now_, I told myself. _You are go__ne out of each other's lives, never to see the__ other again._

"Come on, Jean," called Henri gently as our company turned homeward. "Remember the hearth?"

I followed without a reply, but my mind was still beside the river. When I crawled into bed that night, I resolved that it was best not to become entangled with any more criminals for a good, long while.

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So . . . what do you think? Do let me know, so I can decide whether or not to bother with this. I'm pretty much fixed on writing the whole story in first person, but if you think it should be switched, feel free to tell me. Other suggestions are welcome, just restrain yourself from flaming. :)


	2. Chapter 1: The Summons

Hmm, maybe I should take the lack of reviews (except one - thank you, LesMisLoony!) as a sign that I should drop this story. Do you think? Hmmmm . . . nah.

Now, I've got some warnings/notes for those of you who have decided to read my next installment (kudos to you, by the way):

Numero 1 - This story is AU, so some things have been altered to fit the little weird universe this is set in. For example, Valjean's prison term has been changed from nineteen years to thirteen years. If you really want to know why I changed it, send me a message. If you really couldn't give a crap, good for you.

Numero 2 - I know that, though not all that specified in the book (I think), the "prison" is really a ship. While I have made ship references here, the majority of the prison part of the story takes place in a prison on terra firma, for reasons that you will probably figure out as you read.

Numero 3 - I am REALLY not familiar with the warden hierarchy in 19th French prisons, so some titles may be inaccurately applied. Please forgive me, I was too lazy to do that much homework. Isn't college bad enough, Okay, bad excuse. If you do know the proper titles and what-not, feel free to inform me.

Numero 4 - Yes, there are OCs here, so please do not take without permission. As far as I know, there will be no Mary-Sues. If you encountered a character that resembles a Mary-Sue, feel free to inform me about that, too. Be specific. Don't just say, "Ugh, Mary-Sue, blah!" Specific details are what allow me to improve the story.

Numero 5 - There is no Numero 5. Just enjoy the story! And REVIEW! Thanks.

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A sharp, metallic clang made my eyes open. "24601?"

I didn't bother sitting up. "What is it?"

A middle-aged guard with tiny eyes addressed me through the bars. "Are you prisoner 24601?"

"Who wants to know?"

"That's him, all right," snorted another guard from behind the first. "The smart-aleck. Think you're so tough, don't ya?"

"What do you want with Jack?" asked one of my barrack-mates, Brevet. It was not a question of concern, merely of curiosity. He was more of a gossip than an informer, if you asked around.

"We've got orders to take 24601 to the east-end annex. M. Richelieu wants to see you."

Brevet and I both started at the name. "Richelieu?" For my first five years at Toulon, Richelieu had been little more than a legend – a myth, even – among prisoners and guards alike. When the mysterious name first reached my ears, I thought it was a nickname. "No," Brevet told me one day when I asked him about it, "That's his rightful name, all right. Kind of a joke on the old fellow, don't-cha think?"

No one in my barracks had ever seen him. From the ambiguous rumors we heard about him, we could only surmise that he was wealthy and he held a lofty, sinecure position somewhere within the prison. He might have been the one who wrote letters to the Paris prefecture to ensure for funds and such like. Some people doubted his existence, including myself. Others whispered that he was a crazy old bat. Either way, there was very little fact on which to base our assumptions, so it became a good topic for discussions and debates when boredom (of the brain, not the body) nearly drove us mad.

Never had I imagined that I would be summoned by that man of whom so much was spoken but so little was known. I couldn't even begin to wonder why on earth he wanted to see me.

"It must be for something pretty bad," remarked Brevet with a grin as I was escorted from the cell. "He'd only want to see you if you had been awfully good or awfully bad, and you ain't exactly Toulon's 'model citizen.'"

That was true enough. I just returned from solitary confinement, where I had been punished for my second escape attempt the previous week. My sentence had been bumped up from three years to eight. Perhaps this summons was a special reprimand from a high-ranking official who had the power to make my life even more miserable if I dared to cross the line again. Preparing myself for the worse possible scenario, I allowed the two guards to lead the way without a fuss. The bitter fire than usually burned within me had been quieted, though not completely extinguished. I was biding my time, always silently observing and plotting, but now waiting for the best opportunity to present itself.

The grim stone walls of the prison had done well to drive away what gentleness had once been in my heart. In this place, you had to make yourself as hard as the rocks in the quarries – that determined survival. Gentleness was weakness in the eyes of convicts and wardens, one that earned constant harassment and cruelty.

The memory of my family had half-faded away, and thinking of them only made me homesick. How were they to survive without me? Henri had passed away, so there had been no breadwinner. Being young, rash, and unemployed, I became increasingly desperate to provide for my sister and her children. My only hope in feeding my starving family came to one option: stealing. It was a loaf of bread, and I was caught. Now I paid the price for trying to feed my loved ones, and in the process was separated from them. The more time I brooded on these thoughts, the more scornful and reclusive I became. Youth kept me reckless when I came to Toulon, although I had spent my first day in that place bawling. I became alert to every possibility of escape. I was no better at that than at the crime I was imprisoned for, a lesson I only learned after being caught fleeing over prison walls a second time. Now, at the age of thirty, I was finally learning patience.

It did not take the wardens long to become wary of my actions. Even when I was not making escape attempts, I proved my incredible strength enough times to make them a bit nervous and label me as a "dangerous devil." I figured that I was capable of snapping a man's arm or neck, but I made a point of never flaunting my strength, nor employing it to its limits unless it proved absolutely necessary. It did not take me long to learn that one's assets are most useful when everyone else is not entirely sure of what they are. If a person does not know your strengths, they cannot pinpoint your weaknesses.

I silently walked with the guards, not looking at either of them, and telling myself that I could handle whatever they had in store for me. Our stroll seemed to take us to another part of the country as we went through passage after winding passage, and I should not have been surprised when my legs and feet began to ache. I was nearly prepared to ask them how much further we had to go when we finally turned toward a door that seemed to signify the end of our trek. The guard who had first spoken to me approached the door and unlocked it with a small iron key. He then stepped aside and silently instructed me to go first. I obeyed, followed by the second guard, and then by the first. He firmly shut the door behind us.

What we entered struck me as an empty attic or spare room, lacking any furniture or ornamentation, with a wooden floor rather than stone one, and little cobwebs that were gathering in the corners. On the opposite side was another door. It looked like the entrance of an aristocrat's townhouse, with elaborate engravings and an impressive brass doorknocker. In front of that was an iron grate.

The first guard went up to the door, reached through the bars and banged the knocker loudly. I felt as if I were standing at the front door of someone's home, even though we were in a windowless chamber within a prison. After a minute or so, a slot above the knocker slid open, and a pair of luminous blue eyes peered through the square opening. "Name?"

"Sgt. Carmichel. We've brought the prisoner."

There was a quiet sigh followed by, "Quite right." The tiny door slid shut.

The guard who had referred to me as a "smart-aleck" suddenly asked, "Say, do you have the time?"

The sergeant pulled out the watch-and-chain from his uniform coat. "Yes, it's about . . . a quarter past three. Just when we said we would be here."

The large, heavy door gave a mechanical 'click', and slowly opened to reveal an image I would never forget.

A young man – no more than twenty years of age – stood before us in a calm, casual manner, with one hand placed on his hip and the other holding the heavy door ajar. He was 6' easily, with a slim frame, mahogany skin, and the most engaging sapphire eyes you had ever seen. Perhaps I was so startled by these features because they were accompanied by the uniform of a prison guard. There was something simply odd about this combination that worked against my normal pattern of thinking, though I barely realized it. He arched a black brow. "Is this the one?"

"Yes, number 24601," replied Carmichel flatly. I briefly glanced at the sergeant to note his behavior. He must have seen this fellow a time or two before, and thus was not affected by the youth's appearance.

I had barely turned my head and paid attention in time to hear the young guard say, "Ah, so _you_ are Jean Valjean, are you?" He unlocked the grate and opened it. "Come in, Jean Valjean."

I was momentarily paralyzed. How did he know my name? Most of the guards did not take the time to know our names; they simply called us by our numbers. Many of my mates in the barracks and galleys called me _le __Cric_, anyway, due to my useful strength. It had been a long time since anyone had addressed me by my full, proper name.

It only took me a few seconds to realize that my body had decided to go on without me, and when I fully recovered my senses, I was inside the next room. I did manage to observe the exchange between my escorts and the stranger, though. The older guards were beginning to follow me through the doorway when the youth stopped them. "Oh, do you wish to see M. Richelieu?" he asked innocently.

The wardens were a bit surprised by this, and the sergeant replied, "Well, if M. Richelieu wishes to see either of us . . ."

"Ah!" replied the youth almost cheerfully, "but you see, he _doesn't_." He closed the grate and door in their faces, and turned to walk by me. "This way, con."

A chill rushed down my spine as I looked ahead of me and beheld a sight that seemed to come out of a gothic novel. (I had only picked up a gothic novel long after my release from prison, but the visage spooked me nonetheless.) The breadth of the passage widened a few paces, and the low ceiling suddenly rose into a great arch and continued to linger thirty meters above my head till the end, or what I guessed was the end; the passage was swallowed by darkness. The floor was covered with an exotic, decaying carpet that extended as far as the hall did. There were two light sources present: the dozen candelabras that lined the dust-coated walls, and the candlestick that the young guard picked up from a small table, one of only two pieces of furniture in that hallway. The other, which caught my eye after the guard spoke to me a second time, was a grandfather clock. In the dim light, it took me several moments to see that not only were the hands not moving, but they were frozen at twenty minutes to nine.

"Stop loitering!" snapped the guard. "M. Richelieu does not like to be kept waiting."

Slightly startled by his harsh tone but not permitting myself to appear fazed, I turned to him. "Your clock's stopped."

There was a pause, and he without speaking, he took three steps toward me while holding up the candlestick, as if he were examining my face to see if I had gone mad. This employment of light also allowed me a better look at his face: his eyes seemed to glow a little in the darkness, as does a dog's or cat's when they catch just a tiny bit of light. His dark brows were drawn together, his lips tight and firm, his square jaw and chin jutting out from his collar. Although the young face tried to appear ten years older, the eyes – though precocious in lucidity – held a subtle touch of childlike curiosity. I could see that he had never dealt with convicts in this manner. Indeed, I wondered if he had actually been on barrack or galley duty yet, since I had never seen him before. I was not sure at what age men could enlist as prison guards. The youngest I had known up until that time were in their late twenties. This one . . . even for twenty, he still looked like a boy . . .

"Pardon?"

I started, and blinked several times. "What?"

His scowl deepened as he emitted an impatient growl. "What are you talking about?"

It was another few moments before I remembered what I had said just a moment ago. I reddened at my idiocy (and afterward thanked God for the darkness), then said, "Your clock – it should say a quarter past three. It says twenty to nine."

The lad held up the candlestick higher until it was very nearly in my face. "What business is that of yours? Now stop dawdling and come along, con."

Still a bit warm in the face, I walked in front of the guard and proceeded down the sconce-lined hall with the light of my escort's candles behind and to my right. His long strides forced me to keep up the pace so my heels would not be trampled on. I grew more uneasy as we walked, not completely certain of where my feet would land. My fears were justified when I took a step and felt no ground underneath. I stumbled backward and nearly bumped into the guard. "For God's sake, what is the matter with you?" he snarled. "It's just a staircase, even a convict can handle that."

The leg-arms made the descent more difficult than I believe could have been, but I highly doubted that this guard would be willing to remove them for my comfort. I wished that he could have been a bit more patient as I clumsily maneuvered my way to the bottom. I constantly feared that I would trip, keel forward and crack my head on one of the steps. If my mates had known that these thoughts and concerns were running through the mind of the man who was deemed the most dangerous man in their barracks and had made two escape attempts in five years, I would never have lived it down.

We reached even ground at last, and I would have given anything for a chance to sit down and rest my weary legs. The young guard, however, would have none of it; one look made me not dare to ask. There was no place to rest anyhow, as we were still in a hallway. To my momentary relief, though, I could see a door just a few meters in front of us. Then apprehension set in, and I realized that this was where that enigma – M. Richelieu – resided. The guard did not permit me to pause, but propelled me toward the door. When we came to it, he dryly stated, "This door, con."

My stomach began to twist itself into knots, and after a minute or two of staring at the door, I looked to the guard again. "After you?"

"Don't be ridiculous," he snickered. "_I'm_ not going in."

Then he turned and departed, leaving me in utter darkness.

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Hehe, got a little Phantom-of-the-Opera-ish there. See you soon!


	3. Chapter 2: The Game

There seemed to be no alternative. If I tried to run, there was only one way to exit, and that exit was guarded by a warden – however young he was – with a nightstick on one hip and a pistol on the other. I wasn't going to play the hasty fool this time.

I clenched my right fist and timidly knocked on the door. The sound reverberated in the passage.

"Come in," called a deep, distant voice on the opposite side. Taking a deep breath, I used the same hand to grasp the knob and open the door. It creaked and groaned, as if crying to be oiled. I winced at the grating sound, but it passed once the door swung wide open. I was immediately struck by an overpowering odor of mustiness; had I opened a crypt by mistake?

The room was as poorly lit as the hallway, making the darkness not quite as unsettling to me as before. The rug, from what I could see of it, bore a similar style and condition to the one in the hall. There were a few candles scattered throughout the space, and I could detect long strands of spider silk hanging in the dead air from walls and dust-coated objects.

Beneath the darkness and deterioration, it seemed to be a study. The farthest wall was ornamented with a peeling mantle weighted with old books. The same could be said of a tall shelf that covered the entire right wall. Not one piece of text seemed out of place, nor seemed to have been touched for the longest time. The center of the room, however, did not share the same orderliness. Papers were strewn across the floor and had been trodden upon several times, judging by the dark prints that were impressed upon them. The desk that was a bit to my left and facing me at an angle was likewise untidy, with rough piles of sheets and books taking up what room could have been used for writing, as I assumed was its role. The man sitting in the large, ostentatiously carved chair did not appear to take note of it. In fact, he seemed hardly aware of my presence.

His bulk suggested obesity, but perhaps anyone's figure would when it sat crumpled up in a large chair. His face was thin, though, and sickeningly wan. His hair was covered with a powdered wig that appeared to be slowly falling apart. Stray white strands had worked their way out of the large curls on the sides and stuck out a bit along the top. The clothing article that especially drew my notice, besides the wig, was the large, puffy crimson dressing gown that enveloped him like a heavy quilt. It was made of an expensive material, based upon my untrained eye, and made him look all the more bloated when he sat. It was only sometime later that I noticed the beautifully-tailored coat of white silk and gold embroidery hanging dejectedly on the back of another, less opulent chair. I observed the jacket not too long after I had caught a glance at the gentleman's gold-colored breeches and white silk stockings, now horrifically worn out and filthy. Yes, even to a peasant-born convict like me.

It was several moments before the strange man spoke again. He did not look up. "Who is it?"

I swallowed. "Jean Valjean."

He seemed confused, yet still did not look up from his desk. "Jean Valjean?"

Perhaps he only knew me by my number. "24601. You . . . you wanted to see me."

Had it been a misunderstanding? Was I not the prisoner he wanted to see? Or had he simply forgotten about his own order? He finally glanced up. The room was not very big, so the distance between us still allowed me a decent view of his face. There was something unnatural about it – like the face of a dead man whose eyes are still wide open. His lips were very thin, his nose long and pointed, and his small, glistening, yet slightly glazed eyes sent a chill through my frame. I forbade myself to move in any way.

"Come near," he ordered at last, in a soft tone that expected obedience. I did as he demanded, although I could not resist lowering my eyes as I drew closer to his unearthly gaze.

"Look at me," he croaked. His voice became scratchy when he raised it a bit. I obeyed. His eyes were unrelenting. "Are you afraid to look at a man who has not seen the light of day since you were just a small lad?"

I prayed that my voice would not quiver. "No, monsieur."

He continued to stare at me for some more moments, then he gradually raised his right hand and laid it against the left side of his breast. "Do you know what I touch . . . here?"

This seemed a strange question, which was why I hesitated. He did not press me verbally, but his eyes were enough. "Your . . . your heart?"

"Broken!" The half-croaked exclamation seem to put him in a gloomier mood than before, and he sighed, reclined further into his seat, and directed his gaze toward the mantle with dusty books and candles.

I used his distracted air as an opportunity to have another glance at the room. The wall on the left side was the only one with windows, each of which was concealed with long, heavy curtains. They were probably shuttered, too. I looked at the desk again. The papers in question seemed to be of a business nature, judging by the columns of symbols that I guessed were numbers. I was ill-trained in both writing and arithmetic, although the latter was slightly more developed simply because it was necessary for determining what one could spend one's income on. There was also, to my surprise, a black dress shoe on top of some of the papers.

M. Richelieu's gaze returned to me shortly after he began to speak again. "I have been terribly bored of late," he explained slowly, "and whenever I grow bored, I have these sick fancies. Today, I have such a fancy to see someone play."

I nearly choked on the last word. "I . . . I beg your pardon?"

He repeated, even more slowly this time, "I want you to play for me."

Confusion and nervousness began to swell up within me. "I . . . I do not understand. What do you mean '_play_'?"

The gentleman's eyes widened, which only unnerved me more. "What is there to understand? Just play! Play! PLAY!"

Was this man out of his mind? All that I had seen and heard so far seemed to suggest as much. I wanted nothing more than to bolt from that room and make a break either for the barracks or for the outside wall; either one would do. Then I remembered the young guard with the stern blue eyes and the pistol. I held my ground.

The old man finally lost his patience. "This is intolerable! Call Javert."

Bewildered and more than just a little frightened, I went to the door and weakly called the name into the darkness, not completely sure who would come. I had an idea – a combination of hope and dread, actually – of who this 'Javert' was, but I still jumped a little when the young guard came running down the steps, still carrying his candlestick.

M. Richelieu's mood changed dramatically. He went from thoroughly discontent to overly delighted in less than a blink. "Ah, Javert! Come here, my boy!"

Both men seemed to dismiss my presence for a minute. The lad adopted an air of respect and very mild friendliness as he approached whom I now assumed to be his employer, and possibly guardian. When Javert was by his side, hands militaristically clasped behind his back, the old gentleman pointed to a space behind the youth's head. "Do you see that sword?"

Javert and I both looked to where he was pointing, and sure enough, there was a gleaming sword that sat proudly atop a holder over the mantle. It was the only object in that room not coated with dust.

"That will be yours someday, my boy," continued Richelieu, now very pleased and sanguine, "and you will use it well. But for now . . ."

He looked at me again, a disturbing smile set upon his pale face. " . . . I want to see you play cards with this man."

Javert's mind was still fixed on the sword when these words were spoken, and it pained me to watch the incredible alteration in his expression from pleasure to shock and disgust. "What?! With _him?!_ But he's a convict! A dirty law-breaker! He reeks of guilt and perspiration!"

His insults so surprised and shocked me that I didn't know which to defend first: the reason for my crime, or the limited bathing opportunities of the prisoners. I did not end up saying anything, but instead clenched my fists slightly and felt my face grow hot.

M. Richelieu suddenly motioned for Javert to lean down toward him so he could whisper something in the guard's ear. I cannot be entirely certain of what the old man said, but it something along the lines of, "Come now, I know you can break him."

Javert's look of disdain did not vanish when he looked at me again. He now folded his arms across his chest and glared straight into my eyes. "What do you play, con?"

"Um, just 'Begging My Neighbor,' monsieur," I replied, somewhat embarrassed. I was an ignorant peasant, after all, as well as a convict. With a sigh of reluctance and vexation, Javert directed me to one of two other tables in the room. He selected the smaller of them, which made sense for the game. He picked it up with ease and brought it closer to M. Richelieu's desk. "Get the chairs, con," he ordered roughly. I did, and even after I had neatly arranged the seats in the most appropriate manner I could conceive, Javert took the time to adjust them and the table in whichever way he saw fit – that is, in any way that was not my own.

M. Richelieu opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a deck of yellow-tinted cards. Javert swiped them a bit irritably from their owner's hand, and he plopped down into his seat and began to shuffle. For some reason, it had been arranged that I would be the one to sit closest to M. Richelieu. Despite the oddness of the situation, I did not question anyone. The swarthy youth dealt the cards and claimed that law-abiders were deigned to go first. I thought this might have been a joke – and perhaps it was – but Javert went on ahead before I could argue. The rounds flew by, and soon the young guard had nearly the entire deck under his belt. I didn't need to tell him that I was a lousy card player; my skills (or lack thereof) spoke for themselves. I also became distracted by the harsh remarks that he would throw at me in the midst of play. "I've read your record. You've made two escape attempts already. It's a shame that one's ability to commit crimes does not entail an ability to get out of serving the time for them, isn't it? You really should find some other way to release all that pent up energy. Thank God for the quarries, though, eh? If it wasn't for them, you'd probably have made four escape attempts by now. Don't look so sourly, con, what else did you think they would have you do here? Sit around and knit? You haven't the fingers for such work. Far too thick and clumsy and rough. Yes, rough, and I'm sure not just from breaking and carrying rocks. I understand peasants tend to have rough hands. Yes, yes, I know about that, too, your family and previous occupations. And your period of unemployment. That was what did it, right? Same old story, you can't work so you decide to steal from someone who can. Well, either way, you can count on breaking your back and blistering your hands somehow. You stupid con! Your bloody hands can't hold anything smaller than a loaf of bread . . . or a boulder, for that matter."

I clenched my teeth and picked up the cards I had dropped onto my lap. His comments not only wounded whatever dignity I had left, but they made me terribly conscious of the hands he so ruthlessly criticized. His hands were almost as large as mine, yet they were clearly well taken care of. How was it my fault that I couldn't take care of myself in the same way? Then again, his hands did have a natural quickness and agility that bordered on graceful, and mine were indeed rough and clumsy. My self-esteem sunk lower and lower with every minute that I passed in that place. I was surprised to find myself critiquing my klutzy hands, even when Javert and Richelieu were far and away. I was beginning to hate myself for them. It was ridiculous and irrational, but at the same time inescapable.

We were on our third game, and once again, I was losing. Javert's comments were still coming, and I wanted so badly to hate him. Surely that could not be so difficult. He was treating me horribly. Then again, just how much kindly treatment should a criminal receive?

_Oh, God,_ I thought with horror, _he's getting to my head!_

Still trying to keep pace with the game, I took the risk of scrutinizing him. He was still looking in my general direction, but was too caught up in his own remarks to seem bothered by my gaze. I kept my face as stone-blank as possible while I assessed the young man in front of me. Those eyes . . . . Dammit, it was those eyes! However ugly his mouth may have appeared with its sneers and sarcastic smirks, his eyes seemed to say so much more. I couldn't place my finger on it, but there was something – perhaps a whole other person – behind those eyes, behind this façade that was Monsieur Javert, the guard. Was this a mere pretense, a show he had to put on simply because I was a convict? And if so, how long would it last? If we got to know each other better . . . maybe then . . .

"What are you staring for?" Javert snapped, bringing me out of my thoughts. "Don't you have any respect for authority?" His tone grew bitter. "No, of course not. Why even bother to ask?"

M. Richelieu finally broke in. "He says many hard things about you, but you say nothing of him. What do you think of him?"

Good heavens, what did he expect me to say? The question made me glance at Javert again, and I wondered what he thought of it. He merely stared back, as if he were really waiting for me to answer. It was not that I lacked anything to say, although I was not certain I could articulate my opinion clearly – I was no more eloquent than I was good at playing cards. Hesitating for as long as they would permit me, I at last quietly replied, "I'd rather not say."

"Oh, you can tell me," cooed M. Richelieu with that unsettling grin he used earlier. "Tell me in my ear."

He motioned me to come near him, just as he had done to Javert before we started playing. I knew this could only lead to trouble, but I also saw that if I was going to survive this, I would have to play along, and keep things short and not overblown. A little flattery and a little honesty - that might prevent the ice from breaking beneath my feet. _Might_.

I placed my cards on the table and walked over to M. Richelieu, then awkwardly leaned down toward his ear.

I took a few moments to think about exactly what I should say to stay out of trouble. "Well," I started slowly, "I . . . I think he's proud."

Pride – was that a bad thing? Maybe to some, but then maybe not to others. M. Richelieu merely responded, "Anything else?"

Another long pause from me, then, "I think he's . . . very intelligent."

There, a full out compliment. So far, so good.

M. Richelieu nodded. "Anything else?"

I racked my mind again, and one possibility came that made my ears tingle a bit just thinking about, from fear of embarrassment, and I tried to determine if it would be appropriate. Well, it would be considered another compliment, at least. I decided to try it. "I think he's . . . well, rather handsome." No, not terribly handsome, but decent enough to look at. And his eyes did keep drawing my attention . . .

Richelieu nodded once more, and I thought I detected the rumble of a silent chuckle. "Anything else?"

What? I held back an aggravated sigh while trying to think of something else. Up until that point, I had been striving to repress the hot ball of anger that burned in my chest whenever Javert made one of his little remarks. Now it was making its way up my throat and toward my mouth. Was there any way to stop it?

I leaned toward the gentleman's ear again. "I think he's very harsh." 'Cruel' was the word that nearly jumped out, but I managed to check it and replace it with something not quite so strong. Beyond what I had expected, M. Richelieu actually _smiled_ at that last one. "Anything else?"

I felt weary of all this, so I let open honesty take the lead. "I think I'd like to go back now."

I had been speaking in a whisper for the most part, but when this statement came out (which I thought had been as soft as the others), both Richelieu _and Javert_ started. "And never see him again?" cried M. Richelieu. "Even though he is . . . _so handsome_?"

This time I full out blushed. For God's sake, I didn't say _that_! And loud enough for Javert to hear! I couldn't bring myself to look the guard, not wanting to know his reaction, whatever it was. "I . . . I'm not _entirely_ sure I would not want to see him again." Well, there was some truth in that. "But I would like to go back now."

"You can go back later. Play the game out." There was no room for leniency in his tone. The playfulness was gone, and I had no choice but to oblige my "host."

The last game took a while longer than the previous ones, since I began to gain the upper hand at one point. As often occurs in these games, though, my luck ran out, and I lost all my cards to my opponent. Most of me was relieved when Richelieu told Javert to escort me to the "back door," as he called it; yet there was the strangest feeling of disappointment in my leave. I was returning to the barracks, after all, returning to being another nameless prisoner.

The beginning of our return was a bit delayed due to the difficulty I had with my leg-arms going up the imposing flight of stairs. Although my sight should have adjusted, the passage was as dark as before. We did not speak until we had nearly reached the outer door. Suddenly Javert exclaimed, "Merde!", followed by an extremely firm, "Wait here." Then he disappeared down the hall for a short time.

During that second delay, I quickly played the entire encounter through my head, trying to make head or tail of it. Why did Richelieu want me especially? Was this the punishment he wanted to inflict upon me, if that indeed was his plan? The part that stuck with me most was Javert's observations about my hands. I looked at them again, that strange, irrational loathing springing up in my bosom. Why did I let him bother me? Why did his opinion about my hands or anything else matter?

I looked at them again, their filthiness and callousness becoming more and more evident. A rage similar to what I had felt earlier came back, although this time it was directed at me. I had never liked the way I had been living – being poor, orphaned, and starving while trying to feed seven equally starving children. Now these hands reminded of that, of being trapped in a situation in which I could not help myself, in which I was at a disadvantage and nothing could be done to change it. God, it wasn't fair!

Rage rushed through my mind and body, and in one thoughtless move, I swung my right arm around and punched the stone wall as hard as possible. Hot tears sprung to my eyes, not so much from the pain as from the horrible emotions that were swimming around inside me. Carefully massaging my right hand, I gave the wall a few hard kicks, as if it was its fault that I was in pain. The tears began to roll their way down my face when familiar footsteps approached. I quickly dabbed my eyes with a dirty sleeve and turned my back to him, keeping my face down.

Javert did not speak until he had reached the door and began to unlock it. "Why didn't you cry?" he asked suddenly.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to will away the tears. "I don't want to."

"You _do_ want to," he hissed as he opened the grate. "You've been crying, and you're near crying now."

I didn't say a word in response. I walked away and nearly threw myself into the arms of the other guards who had been waiting for my return. If my eyes hadn't been blurred, it would have been amusing to see their shocked faces. I knew that they were surprised by the state I was in because when we returned to my barrack and they let me back in, the sergeant whispered, "Mon Dieu, what did they _do_ to him?"

They didn't ask me any questions, though, and I didn't feel like answering. But where the guards had been almost considerate, my inmates were not. They wanted to know what had happened, if I had been put on the rack or anything like that. Brevet was especially hungry for news about Richelieu. I kept telling them to bugger off and wait until tomorrow, but they continued to press me. I became so fed up with them that I made up some wild tale, just off the top of my head. I can't even remember what I told them, something about hounds the size of ponies, big silver plates, palatial rooms fit for the king of Persia, and all sorts of nonsense. And they bought it, and kept asking for more. At last I told them that I really was too tired to say more, so with unsatisfied grumbling they let me be.

Brevet, on the other hand, being a snoop and not a complete idiot, was suspicious of my account from the start. That night, just as I was falling asleep, he tackled me and threatened to strangle me with his chain if I didn't tell him the truth. What I told him was as close to the truth as a man can get when he's ready to pass out from exhaustion, although I am sure I left out most of the things regarding Javert. At least Richelieu's name was known; when I asked Brevet if he had heard of anyone named Javert, and he replied in the negative, I was certain that no one else knew of him either. I thought it was better not to go into any details about him. I felt that it wasn't my place, and telling stories that would turn into crazy rumors was just a recipe for trouble. I told Brevet that Javert was simply the guard to Richelieu's chambers and was not particularly interesting. However accurate my other information may have been, that was the worse lie of all. Whatever amount of pain he caused me, however justified I was to hate him, I couldn't remove him from my mind. It was insane, really, that I could have been taken in by someone who clearly hated everything about me.

Suddenly, the barracks seemed more repulsive than before. The wooden planks for beds were harder than ever, and the stench of other unclean bodies assaulted me to no end. Perhaps it was difficult to breathe in Richelieu's study, but at least it was the musk of age, not the musk of bodily excretions. That old desperation for escape crept up on me, and patience was put to the test. No, it wasn't the time. Far from it, there were more things to learn before I left that place for good. Lessons that, in my mind, I couldn't afford to pass up.

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	4. Chapter 3: The Encounter

Oh my gosh, a fourth chapter! Inconceivable!

No, no, this story wasn't abandoned. Far from it. I just felt that I needed to step away from it for a while and do a lot of thinking. This was mainly due to AmZ's review which, in all fairness, made a lot of very good points.

In the process of writing this chapter, I think I have begun to slightly incorporate some of those suggestions that AmZ made. That is no guarentee that anything is really going to materialize. To tell the truth, I don't really know how everything in this particular section is going to resolve. And the story as a whole will be quite the behemoth. There's going to be a significant middle section before some of the major events take place.

I'm also planning to reupload chap. 2 (the previous chapter) with minor corrections. No major alterations will be attempted until I have made a decent amount of progress. Which will probably not occur until school work stops being such a priority (groan).

ANYWAY, reviews are very much appreciated (thank you LesMisLoony, Kzunten Kidaurqoi (I look forward to the day I can spell/pronounce your name), jeevesthemighty, and AmZ). :)

Well, on with the show. Again.

Disclaimer: GO AWAY! (brandishes herring)

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It was another two weeks before I was summoned again. The painful memory of my first meeting had dulled slightly, but it was enough to make me a just a bit eager to revisit Richelieu's quarters. It probably puzzled the guards that I wasn't fighting tooth and nail not to go back, having witnessed my state when I last left that place. Optimism in the face of adversity was not a naturally-endowed trait of mine, and yet here I was sporting it, albeit in a subtle manner.

During my walk, I pondered how things would be this time around. Javert's treatment of me might be just as bad as before, maybe worse. There was no concrete way to tell, though. Besides, what didn't kill me would make me stronger, right?

The cliché provoked the ironic notion that I was being picked up like a stone and hurled toward an impenetrable brick wall. As I contemplated the figurative impact, dread sat in my stomach like a lead block.

The walk and the entrance process were the same as before; Javert did not seem any different, although he didn't immediately jump to the insults. That was a small breath of relief. The guards did not attempt to cross the threshold, so a word did not even pass between them and the lad. As soon as the door to the foyer was closed, however, an alteration was revealed.

Rather than heading for the hallway, Javert led me to the left wall of the room, extracted a second key from a hidden coat pocket, and revealed another door that was perfectly camouflaged with the rest of the wall. There was not even a handle, so Javert used the key as a way to pull the secret door open.

"You'll be going this way today, con," he explained coolly, then stepped aside to let me pass first.

I could feel a sense of routine beginning to sink in, although this route was completely new. I had figured out that Javert naturally wanted me in front of him so that I was always in his sight, and could not pull some escape stunt. At least that provided some sense of consistency.

There was a new hallway behind the secret door. It was similarly adorned as the foyer and larger hall, but a great deal smaller and narrower; I could think of a few fellow prisoners who would have had incredible difficulty passing through that corridor.

My mind had already concluded that this hall, as well as the other, must have led to Richelieu's study. That was my purpose for being here, was it not? I was here for whatever end Richelieu had in mind. One could only imagine how I felt when I met the opposite door and opened it thoughtlessly, only to be encountered both by piercing daylight and a congregation of aristocrats.

The scene made me think of a few dreams I had had over the years, in which I am in a public place and either naked or in women's clothes. Everyone's eyes are on me. Sometimes the crowd is laughing, and sometimes it is deadly silent.

At this moment, the group was the latter, time seemed as still as the old grandfather clock, and I was praying that this was a dream. Again, God must have been on holiday or something because I gave myself a small pinch and nothing changed. No, it was definitely not a dream.

The only person who was not shocked, frightened, or outraged by this was Javert. He locked the door behind me, gave me a light tap on the shoulder, and directed to the next one. I involuntarily stared at the wealthy party for another second, then quickly stumbled out the door. Before Javert shut it, I managed to catch one of the women saying, "Mercy me! What next?"

I could not even conceive what had happened. The only comprehensible thought that my mind could form was: "What are those well-dressed people doing in a prison? What could they have been arrested for? Being too rich?"

Needless to say, I was not my sharpest. Whether or not Javert sensed this remains a mystery to me. If he did, then this was a double-cruelty on his part. If not, then it was simply another unfortunate coincidence for me.

The previous scene has rattled me so that I nearly crashed into Javert when he suddenly turned around and faced me. What made it even more awkward was that he was standing on the second step of a flight of ascending stairs; ergo I practically walk into his chest. Startled, I jumped back an inch and looked up.

"Well?" he demanded, his voice like ice.

My throat constricted. "Well, _monsieur_?"

He paused a moment and tilted his head. "Do you think I'm handsome?"

_Oh, God, not this again_, I immediately thought, but then I reconsidered. There was nothing teasing in his question, only seriousness on the brink of innocent curiosity. This both calmed and bemused me.

"Well . . . yes, I suppose you are."

"You _suppose_?"

I gave a slight sigh. "You are handsome, _monsieur_." However flatly I said it, it still came out strangely on my tongue.

He tilted his head the other way. "Do you think I'm harsh?"

I took an honest moment to think about it. He hadn't really said much up to this point. I momentarily wondered if perhaps our passing through that other room had been some vicious plot of either his or Richelieu's, but I decided not to think so meanly of them. Not yet, in any case.

"No," I replied candidly, "not so much as last time."

Javert's eyes narrowed. "No so much, you say?"

I tensed, sensing some unidentifiable danger. "Well . . . no."

My reflexes are decent enough, but Javert had speed enhanced by agility at his command. My mind and body were only barely aware of what was about to happen before it did. The only action I could manage was covering the left side of my face after the nightstick found its mark.

"Take that, you swine!"

A bit of an odd way to get into it, but circumstances had finally achieved normalcy. At least the blow didn't sting all that much, even if his words did.

When I looked up again, he was leaning closer to me, eyes squinched and nose wrinkled. "What do you think of me now?"

I removed my hand from my cheek and straightened up. "I won't tell you."

"Why? Because you're going to run away? Is that it?"

This time it was _my_ voice that went hard. "No. That's not it."

Javert must have felt that his opponent was gaining some backbone, so he threw down his trump. "Why don't you cry again, you wretch?"

I had one ready for his. "You'll never get another tear out of me."

There was a heavy pause as we held each other's glare. I knew Javert well enough by now to figure that even if he could not achieve a clear victory, he would never back down from a confrontation in which he believed he had the upper hand. Whatever he thought of me, I had no intention of giving him the pleasure of exposing my weaknesses anymore. I had been able to conceal them from the other prisoners. I would do so with him now, and then some.

Javert finally turned and proceeded up the stairs. He was clearly still unsatisfied, for his tone was even more caustic when he directed me to a door and growled, "In there, con."

It was only after he disappeared down the hall that I attempted to gain my bearings. Well, I was completely turned on my head now. The last time I was here, Javert had led me _down_ a staircase. This time we had gone _up_ one, which meant that this was going to be a completely different room.

I was grateful that at least my capacity for logic had finally returned.

I couldn't imagine what room Javert had taken me to, though. This door was bigger than the door to the study, and more elaborate in design. As before, I knocked a few times. There was no answer. After a few more unnecessary knocks, I decided that since I supposed to be here, and no one was inside, it couldn't hurt to go in.

What met my eye stunned me even more than my first view of the study. This room was not of a business nature. This looked like a lavish dining hall. There was even a fire burning in the hearth. The illumination here was limited as well, so it took me several moments to fully take in the condition of the chamber.

My eyes soon became fastened on the long table covered with all sorts of expensive dishes and delicacies. Whatever hunger this caused in me, however, quickly became dispelled when the stench of decay reached my nostrils. This was even worse than the study and the barracks combined. What truly made my stomach turn, though, was the sight of little rodents and maggots crawling all over the now decomposing food. There was one particularly large mound of grayish matter that was impossible to identify, but it seemed a favorite of the mice. I had to cover my nose and mouth to not be sick.

The next shock of the day came as a bony hand forcibly grabbing my shoulder. "Here you are."

I whirled around to face the bundle of gray-yellow flesh and crimson plush, now leaning on a thick gold-headed cane. Still shaking a bit, I made a small, awkward bow. "Yes, M. Richelieu."

"So the days have worn away, have they?" His words were as dry as the air that enveloped us.

"Yes, monsieur, about two weeks—"

"Enough of that. I know nothing of time. Not of the days or the weeks or the years. Bah, what use are they to anyone? Come, walk with me. Walk with me, walk with me!"

I was suddenly on his arm and matching his creaky stride as we circled around the nauseating odor that rose from the table. "You see all this?" he asked, motioning to the sight with the end-tip of his cane. "Can you guess what it is?"

Guess it? I couldn't even look at it. "I cannot, _monsieur_."

"It's a wedding feast. That mountain you see there? That was a cake for my bride. I had this heap of decay brought in here, and it and I have worn away together. Mice have been gnawing at it." His voice went a bit lower and darker. "But sharper teeth than teeth of mice have been gnawing at me."

I could make little of what he was saying, except that he had been a bridegroom at one point. It was impossible to imagine Richelieu as such, mainly due to the fact that it was impossible to imagine him as a youth. By this time I surmised that he was roughly in his seventies. (I was later informed that when I first met him, he was sixty-two.) He did seem a little less elderly in gait when he walked about. This was counteracted by the wrinkled hands and decrepit wig.

A door suddenly opened, and I thought Javert had decided to make a little stir in hopes of gaining some sort of triumph over me today. Instead, to my chagrin, we were greeted by the party of gentry-folk. There was a short moment in which my eyes met theirs, and each side briefly remembered the odd incident from not too long ago. The moment was transient, though, and their attention was quickly diverted to the older man at my side.

"_Bonjour_, M. Richelieu!" they chimed in not complete unison. One fellow with grayish-white hair added, "You look well, old chap!"

Richelieu's expression turned sour. "I do _not_ look well, Remus Fauchelevant. I'm yellow, skin, and bone, and don't you try to convince me or yourselves otherwise."

He then lowered his voice and directed it to me. "Those, Jean Valjean, are my relations. Old Remus there is my cousin. Their only reason for coming here is to ask about my health." (Here he slipped in a meaningful wink.) "So once a year, on my birthday, I summon them to visit me. I can tolerate such visits only once a year."

I was taken aback. "Today is . . .?"

"There!" he cried suddenly, then became quiet again. "Why don't you call Javert and have him take you to the courtyard. He'll let you know when to come back in."

My mind was beginning to spin. _Courtyard?_

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Despite the impressive turrets that blocked out most of the sky, the outdoors were a great improvement. The cool, unimprisoned air was far easier to breathe, and it stirred that old hunger that went beyond food and immediate needs. I was beginning to crave freedom again.

It was growly steadily harder to restrain the feeling. Many times I scolded myself, promising that when the opportunity arose, we would make the most of it, and be successful. I would make no room for doubt or error. Whatever plan I would conceive for escape, it would need to be foolproof. But the cage-bound animal within could not be appeased.

This taste of freedom's air brought that embittered creature to the surface, and I unconsciously began pacing the perimeter of the courtyard. The space was made entirely of rock: the flagstones under my feet, the exquisite, empty fountain that stood in the center, the gravel that surrounded said fountain, and the granite walls, pillars, and parapets that towered above me. Like the rest of the prison, it was a world of perpetual gray tones. Not one speck of green was present, which assured me that either Richelieu had the mind to hire a gardener to keep an eye out for any invading plant-life, or there were several layers of hardy rock beneath the surface. I did not risk prying up one of the stones to check, for I was being watched. I couldn't see the young guard, but I did not doubt that he was keeping a close eye on me. Even bolting on foot would have been impossible; I did not know the ways of the rest of the annex, and they likely made up a labyrinth that I would be unable to unravel.

I continued to think gloomily on the situation, as well as try to grasp what on earth this place was, and who its inhabitants were exactly. That is, until I heard a voice from above give a cry of salutations.

"Hello, down there!"

My head jerked upward. On one of the turrets, there was a window that let onto a small balcony, which was now occupied by an odd-looking man with a telescope. I say odd for several reasons. His clothes seemed to be those of a wealthy man, yet he wore them in such a careless, untidy manner. His hair, too, was strangely wild in its shape, sticking out from all sides of his head. He was sitting upon the railing, with one foot anchored to the floor and the other propped in front of him. He was not a young man, either, at least a few years my senior. Though his hair was dark, I managed to discern a few streaks of incoming gray.

"Hello," I replied cautiously.

He lowered the elevated leg so that he straddled the railing. "Who gave you permission to prowl about so?"

"M. Javert."

"Indeed! Well, you do it well, I have to give you that. Had me observing you for some time before I decided to call you. Where are you from?"

I wasn't quite sure how to answer this. He must have noticed my chains, though, and assumed that I was a convict.

"Faverolles."

He let out a laugh. "You came all the way from Faverolles in _those_!"

I looked down at the shackles. Hadn't I endured enough humiliation?

No, apparently not.

"So," the stranger continued, "are you Edmond's new lackey now? Or maybe that dandy's whipping boy?"

Dandy? Surely this fellow was not referring to Javert.

"Edmond?" I inquired instead.

"M. Richelieu, I mean."

"Not as far as I know." I tried to seem indignant, but instead I sounded like an idiot even to myself.

"Still waiting for an assignment, then. I see."

His initial halt in speech did not convince me that he was through. For once, I was right.

"Hold on a moment, I'll be right down."

Great. Just what I needed.

It was not too long before the stranger reappeared. I felt the mildest twinge of guilt when he appeared in the yard red-faced and winded. That must have been quite the series of steps he trekked.

"I know this may seem untoward," said the man rapidly, "but I always dread these visits to my cousin's, and at the moment I am in severe want of a companion. You know, someone to while away the hours with so as not to be done in by boredom."

If there had been any similarity between him and Richelieu to persuade me that they be related, it was an unusual tendency to pursue the company of convicted felons in order to avoid ennui. I could not make sense of it, and it seemed pointless to even try.

"I praise my brother for being so clever," he continued. "My cousin Remus comes strolling by to collect us for this ridiculous trip, and what does my brother do? He tells him he's enlisted in the army and going abroad with Napoleon! Of course, he had the foresight to predict our cousin's arrival, and took care of the business ahead of time. He's a terrible liar, I'm afraid. A good liar and he would not have to go to such lengths. I too am quite terrible at it, and honesty did not seem to do the trick in the matter. I would have followed my poor brother's example were it not for my rheumatism. Yes, yes, in the right knee. Oh, don't be concerned, there weren't that many flights. I just take them steadily and the pain is not that great. In any case, here I am. Oh, I see you're looking at my telescope. Funny story about that. Well, here I was putting my bag together – quite unhappily, as you can imagine – and suddenly I find this old thing. I used it in my university days, you see. I had taken a brief but passionate interest in astronomy, and was determined to prove how devoted I was to the science by buying my own telescope. Well, I ended up dropping it for several reasons. Astronomy, I mean, not the telescope. First, there really is no vocation – or money – in it. I needed something that would provide a greater guarantee for my future financial success. Second, the grisettes are far more interested in students who are studying to be surgeons or politicians, which may be accounted to reasons similar to the one I just mentioned. Some do fancy the artists, which I never understood. Oh, yes, there was another reason, too: turned out this telescope was bloody defective. I couldn't distinguish objects more than twenty miles away. I suppose I should have expected such a thing from a pawnbroker, but what alternative did I have? My account was often on the low end in those days. Actually, they have always been low, even today. At least in the military, you can either die as a hero on the battlefield, or survive to be loaded with honors. But marching and fighting and rheumatism really do not go well together. Oh, how thickheaded of me! You are probably wondering what I was doing with it. It may not give you a glimpse of the stars, but it does well in magnifying other objects, like the sea. You have seen it, no doubt. From one of those galleys, I imagine. But you have not really seen the sea until you see it from shore, with the sky and the land at its head and foot. Such a sight it is! You really ought to have a look sometime. It's hard to believe that that is the very same body of water that the Italians see, and the Greeks see, and the Egyptians see! My cousin certainly picked the right spot, however cracked he may be. I wonder how he could ever look at it, though, with every window shuttered up. Such a waste, really. I'm certain he does not fail to amuse himself, though, like when he named this wretched place."

His roving rant had lulled me into a state of apathetic numbness until this point. His last statement caused enough confusion in my mind to stir me out of the trance. I raised a puzzled brow. "What do you mean?"

He gave me a bewildered look. "Do you not know what this place is called?"

I tried to understand what he was asking. I finally answered, "Le Prison de Toulon?"

The man laughed even harder this time. "My, you really are quite something! I meant the house."

My eyes must have widened like those of a frightened deer, for the bizarre man laughed hysterically. I was half-afraid, half-hoping that he would suddenly keel over from a stroke. When he finally calmed down, he panted, "You really don't know? Where do expect someone like Richelieu to live? Mind you, he did not live here all his life. Or, rather this house was not always here."

Suddenly, flashes of brief, detailed scenes passed through my mind. The shoe on the desk, the spoiled wedding feast, the dressing gown . . . this was Richelieu's home! His mansion! And it was connected to the prison.

In the moment of this revelation, I began grinding my teeth irately. How could I have been so dense?

"Now, now," coaxed the man, observing my self-directed anger, "do not be too hard on yourself. Perhaps they did not want you to know. But it is really none of my concern whether you do or not."

Another memory was revived, and I heard Richelieu instructing Javert to be sure to lock the "back door" this time. Back door . . .

Steadying my tense voice, I dragged in a breath and began to speak again, slowly and mindfully. "So, you mean to say that . . . this is a house . . . that has an entrance . . . that leads to the . . . _outside_?"

The man furrowed his eyebrows, the first sign of apprehension he had displayed thus far. "Well, yes, of course. Not that you will ever find it, I dare say. No, no, Edmond will be sure to take care of that. Bloody hell, I don't know how many times _I've_ gotten lost in this dreadful edifice. I would not attempt it, there are things hidden away in here that are best left undiscovered."

What did that matter to me? What could be worse than what I was living every day? It may have been as futile as trying to pass through Hell and back, but as far as I could see, it was my best chance.

_Now hold on_, came the soft, resilient voice of reason. _There's no point in being hasty. Remember, Javert will never let you out of his sight. He would never trust you._

_No, not now, but maybe if I prove that I deserve his trust . . . that I'm not just some low, dirty, soulless animal . . ._

"Are you still there?"

My eyes blinked violently, and I saw the frizzy-haired kook. "Oh, sorry."

"Not at all, I understand," he replied, a ludicrous grin plastered on his face again. "I just thought you'd be anxious to know what the old bat named this place."

_That's the pot calling the kettle black,_ I couldn't help thinking, but I decided to entertain him in the hopes of him finally going on his way. "What is it, then?"

He raised his chin and held the pose for dramatic effect. At last he leaned toward me and answered in a hushed voice, "La Maison d'Erebus."

I frowned but remained silent for a minute, thinking that he might offer an explanation. When none came, I couldn't fight the urge to ask, no matter how much my voice of reason screamed at me. "What is that supposed to mean?"

The man was beaming now. "Ah! I see you are not well read on Greek myth."

Of course I wasn't! I was a bloody peasant turned bloody convict! I could barely read!

"No," I answered tightly.

The infuriating buffoon did not hesitate to launch into an explanation now, and was not the least bit deterred by the lethal anger that burned in my eyes. "Well, the name 'Erebus' is in fact the Latinized version of the Greek name 'Erebos.'(1) In Greek mythology, Erebos was the offspring of Chaos, a primordial God. Some scholars argue that the name, meaning 'darkness,' is connected to the Hebrew word _erebh_ and the Akkadian word _erebu_, both of which mean 'evening' or 'sunset.' As a being, Erebos was the personification of darkness. His name has been used in several other ways; sometimes as a place in Hades, the Underworld, and sometimes as a name for Hades the god himself!(2) Quite a fascinating topic, Greek mythology. There's a lot to learn from them, I'll tell you. When you are released, I recommend the first thing you do is acquire some decent texts on the subject. You never can know when such references will pop up in conversation."

I was aching for this particular conversation to be over. I was not sure whether to interrupt him and tell him to leave me alone, or to simply punch him.

"24601!"

I released my breath. Hallelujah, God was back from holiday! Let sweet manna rain from Heaven!

"I have to go," I quickly muttered before fleeing from my companion and his unnerving harangue.

"There you are," glowered Javert as I approached him in another dark, fusty hall. "It's time to go back now."

"Already?" I replied in as facetious a tone as I could manage. I wanted to hide any betraying trace of gratitude.

He only retorted with a crinkled nose. I thought I saw his nostrils flare out a bit, too.

Strangely, as we made yet another long procession to the back door, I felt an unexpected lightness in my chest. Not in the wholly carefree sort of way, but as if an extra weight had been mercifully removed. I felt a bit taller, even in Javert's presence.

Had I not been determined to seem stalwart, and perhaps not secretly afraid of receiving another knock from the formidable nightstick, I would have hugged him.

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(1) Erebos – 20,000 Names from Around the World

(2) Erebus - Wikipedia

Dammit, footnotes did not work the way I wanted them to! Grrr.

Note: Reuploaded this with miniscule edits.


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